Monday evening I scrambled through my guidebook, looking for something I otherwise would have missed. That’s what I do when I come to a place I haven’t visited before, I read the guidebooks before I go, but everything gets a whole new meaning when you’re there, you realise where everything is, what you’ll be able to do and see. This time I found two things I wanted to take a look at. A. Museo Diocesano d’arte Sacra and B. Chiesa di San Geremia e Lucia. Why A? Because the setting of the museum, the cloister of Sant’Apollonia, is the only example of Roman architecture in Venice, and because of the beautiful courtyard. Then why B? Because this is the resting place of Santa Lucia, the only catholic saint still celebrated in the Nordic countries. I could not be in Venice and not visit her. To tell the truth, I had not known that her relics even existed, and definitely not that they are in Venice, of all places. This was a Sicilian girl after all.
I stepped out of the hotel and immediately returned inside, to toss my jacket away, for the first time, what a joy! The sun was shining, it was warm and cosy. The city was suddenly up and alive in a way it hadn’t been for the last couple of days, a buzz in the air, people more energetic and alert. My steps had a whole new swing to them and the hems of my dress swayed along. A bit too much actually, as the wind had some strong objections to me covering my thighs and my butt… Oh well, maybe I made some men happy as I went. On my way to place A I bought some postcards, I would have to start writing them now, or so I thought, as I always do in a reliable fashion. In reality I always end up panicking with the last cards the last moments before I step through security on the airport, scribbling down some words, having no time to make an effort. But it’s good to start with noble thoughts and goals, isn’t it.
Sant’Apollonia was a remarkable place. There was something magical in the air, a calm, a resonance of voices long gone. A stillness. I was alone in the courtyard, breathing in and out, enjoying the atmosphere, the istrian pillars, the floor tiles in a beautiful fishbone pattern, the light spilling through the pillars, creating mesmerizing shadows. I have visited other similar places, and always felt that same feeling in the air, so refreshing, a moisture and a refuge from heat. You feel like you just drank a glass of cold spring water.
The rest of the museum was somewhat, I don’t know, not depressing, but gloomy. All those paintings and artefacts from forgotten churches, taken from the places they were intended to be seen at. I became sad watching them, all their possible glory was diminished somehow by hanging here amongst other “abandoned” items. An orphanage, yes that’s it, it was like an orphanage for church dedicated items. But no, I did not want to cuddle them or bring them home with me. There’s a limit to everything, even when it comes to silly me.
I re-entered the real world after a while and guided my steps towards Ferrovia, walking slowly, embracing the splendid weather, photographing and looking at all the details on the buildings. I felt so free now with my camera and my moves when the rain didn’t hinder me in any way. The cold didn’t stiffen my limbs. Somewhere along my way I stumbled upon an internet café and gladly went inside. It’s not like I’m addicted to the net, but I did feel a need to check out what was going on in the world. The weather forecast also needed to be looked at. It was some depressing info I obtained… rain for almost the rest of my stay. Oh well, you can’t do anything about the weather can you, but now when I had experienced Venice in sunshine, I didn’t want to see one single drop of rain anymore. Thank you very much.
Strada Nuova was a surprise, the width and open space felt almost alien after days spent in the maze of the Venetian alleyways. It didn’t in fact feel Venetian, but just like a random street in a random Italian city. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, just different. I popped into the supermarket and bought some snacks and strawberries. My first ones this year. Strawberries and sunshine, could it be any better… A bit later I found myself sitting at Campo San Marcuola, reading my guidebook, munching on the strawberries (which didn’t even have a hint of taste…), watching the boats go by, people emerging from the vaporetti. Even the stone I sat on was warm and comfortable. On an impulse I decided to go to Ca’d’Oro. I would be backtracking myself, but who cares, this was all about being in Venice, experience the place, rather than checking off an itinerary as efficiently as possible. Besides, Venice is a small city, you can jump here and there, make detours, in fact that is something you should do. Let the city guide you, go with impulses, let your feet, your eyes and nose lead you, while you relax and enjoy the ride. I jumped on a vaporetto to take me to the Golden House. As I walked down a narrow alley down from the vaporetto stop I almost missed the entrance to the museum. Not only was it quite anonymous, but it also only said Galleria Franchetti, which I didn’t realise, was the name of the collection inside. Nowhere did it say Ca’d’Oro, or then I just missed those words. But as the bold creature I am, I stepped inside into the wild unknown and behold, I, in fact, was in Ca’d’Oro. I was lucky, because for some reason I did not hear/understand etc, the museum was free this particular day. No fee. Yippiaiei. 
I went straight up to the loggia on the second floor. This was where I wanted to be, to stand there and gaze out on the Canal Grande. Glass covered the entrance from floor to ceiling and secluded the loggia from the rest of the piano nobili. When I closed the glass door behind me, everything became still. Like being in a bubble. The traffic on Canal Grande went on uninterrupted, but all the noises sounded muted and distant. This was an own world. The gothic pillars descended gracefully up into the sky and painted lacelike shadows on the loggia floor. Here too, the air felt refreshing and tangible somehow. A place to dwell in for awhile, to rest. There is definitely something between me and these kinds of places, the gothic influences as well as the roman. The beauty of the vaults, the delicately carved stone and the light these features enable and enhance, all this just make my heart beat faster, make my soul vibrate with pure joy and peace. Harmony. Man-made beauty, touched by hundreds of years, impregnated with the presence and voices of people long gone.
I stood there at the loggia a long time, looking out onto the Canal Grande, the traffic, the people, I imagined myself belonging there, a noble woman sitting there with some needlework. I felt the pride of that grand building surround me, vibrating through the worn marble. A pride that radiated from the lions attached to the balconies, as they continued to gaze out onto the Canal Grande. Rain and wind had softened their features but their bold spirits remained as strong as ever, guarding the finest of the Venetian palazzos. 
I paid the other loggia a visit as well and cast some glimpses upon the collection as I walked through the rooms. Nothing extraordinary special there, I have to admit, for me, it was the building itself that mattered. Downstairs I found another gem. The floor of the portego de mezzo was entirely covered by mosaics and together with the vaults of the ceiling, it made an absolutely enchanting space. A couple shared this large floor with me and we three silently looked around, moving in slow motion with looks of amazement plastered on our faces. Here too I sat for a while, on a stone bench, carefully examining the fine tiles underneath my feet. Palazzo Santa Sofia, a beautiful name for an extraordinary beautiful building. 
When I finally managed to drag myself away from all the architectural goodies I hopped on a vaporetto back towards San Marcuola, but jumped off for some reason that escapes me, at San Stae. There I stumbled upon Palazzo Mocenigo and remembered reading that this particular museum had some 18th century costumes on display. So of course I went inside. This was a fine palazzo, picturing the history of the Mocenigo family, with clothes, photos and art. Splendid furniture, amazing mirrors and costly gildings. Those 18th century nobles sure lead a nice life within these walls.
As I stepped outside I felt like cursing, the sun was gone and lonely raindrops flew into my face. That’s what you get when you spend the beautiful day inside museums. I started walking towards Piazzale Roma, feeling hungrier each step I took and finally found myself sitting at Ristorante Roma just on the other side of Ponte di Scalzi. Maybe not the best move, but I’m not famous for making good moves when it comes to food. I just go somewhere random, with some very random results. Never have I walked away hungry though, and that’s the point with eating, I guess. I ordered Venetian liver and waited, sitting next to red geraniums and listening to the flirting waiter. He was impossible, teasing me, giving me advise on what to do, where to go, asking me to join him for a drink later in the evening in Campo San Margherita, giving me details on when he would finish work etc. It wasn’t rude or intrusive, and I didn’t feel uncomfortable, it just made me laugh and shake me head. And no, not for a second did I even consider his offer. Why? Well, he was well beyond his forties and not even good-looking. Not that I would have taken the offer had these attributes been different…
I managed to escape with my dignity intact and made my way to the other must-stop for the day, Chiesa San Geremia e Lucia, only a few hundred metres away. Some short hundreds metres is absolutely enough to buy an ice-cream, and so I did, a marvellous nutella taste. I bought ice-cream almost once every hour (well, not quite, but often enough) my whole trip, because Italian ice-cream is a taste of heaven. All the different versions, tasting just like the name suggests. I think it’s based on water (?) and therefore it has a sorbet like consistence, making it light. At the moment the one thing I miss the most about Venice is the ice-cream… Here in Finland all the ice-cream is based on cream and it’s much harder and the aromas and tastes aren’t as clear as in the Italian version. Sadly. Fragola, mela verde, limone, nutella, stracciatella, mousse marengue… Oh heaven, just heaven… I had devoured my cone way before I stepped inside the chiesa.
The doors were open and I carefully made my way deeper into the shadows of the church. It felt strange, knowing that I would soon lay my eyes upon the body of Santa Lucia, the woman who I have been celebrating since I was little. 13th of December is the day of Santa Lucia, the day when one girl is chosen to portray her in every kindergarten, school, town… She, who is the chosen one (usually one of the popular girls) is envied (I never got to be Lucia, always one of the maids…oh the bitterness). A number of girls then become maids, walking with Lucia where she goes. Lucia is clad in a white robe, as are all the maids, and she has green wreath with candles on her head and a red belt around her waist. The small children have electric lights and the older ones as well as the adults, real candles blazing on top of their heads. The scent of burning hair is familiar to almost everyone involved in the Lucia festive... The red belt symbolizes the blood Lucia shed in her martyrdom and the candles the light she brought to the people she met. The maids all have different kinds of wreaths on their heads and around their waists and they carry candles. Singing songs devoted to Santa Lucia they walk in cortege, the maids two and two behind Lucia. I grew up with the legend of Santa Lucia so for me it was truly a trembling experience to “meet” her, stand in front of her relics, see a piece of the real woman who continues to spread light in the darkest time of the year. She makes up a huge part of the path towards Christmas, during the time of Advent.
I found her glass coffin in one of the side altars, red chandeliers all around and a golden touch. I took the camera out; this was something I had to show people back home. The guardian of the church said something in Italian to me, and I understood that he told me that photographing was allowed, but not the use of flash. So I took one picture. Only afterwards, at home, when I looked at my pictures did I clearly see the sign that forbade photos. Oh how ashamed I felt… I take these bans seriously and never ever would I try to take a photo in a place that states that it isn’t allowed. Oh well, it happens to the best of us I assume. At least I bought some cards and other material there as well. 
There were several candles alight in front of the altar, more than in any other church I had visited on my trip. Slowly I moved forward, disbelievingly looking at the short human body clad in a red robe with golden embroideries. Could it really be her? She died 304 AD, almost 2000 years ago, could her body have survived through all this time? It felt remarkable, still does. You could only see her feet and one of her hands; the face was covered with a silver mask, making her look peaceful and dignified. The story of how her relics ended up in Venice is a long one, and something I looked up when I was back home. It was kept in Sicily for hundreds of years until an Italian duke stole them and brought them to Italy. From there on they made their way to Constantinople by means of a Byzantine emperor and finally, when Constantinople fell, to Venice in the 13th century.
You could step even closer to her, walk right behind the altar and press your nose to the glass. It felt a bit morbid, standing there just a few inches away, staring at a dead body. People had left pictures of loved ones and papers with prayers to the saint. Next to her altar was a little room where you could buy small catholic items, crosses etc, postcards and books about the saint. The guardian came along and started to explain to me about the paintings hanging in there. He did it in Italian but gestured so clearly and spoke so slowly, that I understood the main lines of what he was trying to tell me. They have a Tintoretto in that small space, hanging on the wall anonymously. I would have liked to tell the guardian, an old man, about the Lucia-tradition in Scandinavia, but we sadly didn’t have a mutual language. He felt very sincere about his mission, was he maybe volunteering or…? I don’t know, but he clearly wasn’t taking this as a job, but as something personal. He seemed literally to be a guardian of the church.
The weather had gotten chilly when I got back outside, I needed a bathroom and my feet were sore. These all combined made a very good excuse to get back to the hotel and freshen up, so I decided to take a vaporetto to San Zaccharia. Eventually I found a bathroom at the railway station and therefore stole some extra time. Didn’t do anything particular, strolled for some time and then I took the vaporetto home.
When I had padded my heels and put on something a bit warmer I headed out again. No sleeping this time, amazing. I walked without a goal, to the right, to the left, up and down, through and across. Looking, watching, listening and smelling everything Venice had on display. Eventually I, again, sometime after dark, found myself twirling the streets and alleys between San Marco and Rialto. There was hardly any wind this evening, my hems where left undisturbed and I could concentrate on my surroundings better than I had during the day. Again I was amazed at how different the city felt in the evening, it took another shape, another atmosphere, it was like entering another dimension, another Venice. I feel really sorry for all the day-trippers, how much they miss, how much they fail to see and experience. Although I was happy that most of the people do go away, it is one of the reasons the city becomes so magical during the dark hours.
I crossed Piazza San Marco just like I did every evening, listening to the music for a while, enjoying the peace and quiet. After eating caprese and two large pieces of cake (not by my own choice!) at a restaurant, I slowly rolled my bloated body back to the hotel and called it a night.
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